


Caress

by nightcourthighlordrhysand



Series: Nessian [3]
Category: A Court of Thorns and Roses Series - Sarah J. Maas
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Established Relationship, F/M, Living Together, Post-Canon, The Night Court
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-12
Updated: 2017-07-26
Packaged: 2018-10-31 02:37:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 8,397
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10889922
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nightcourthighlordrhysand/pseuds/nightcourthighlordrhysand
Summary: A series of one shots inspired by a list of "kiss prompts" - Feysand and NessianEach chapter is its own one shot, prompts accepted on my Tumblr of the same URL :)





	1. Abscond

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Feysand & Prompt 2: moving around while kissing, stumbling over things, pushing each other back against the wall/onto the bed - Modern AU Rated M

Rhys snorts against Feyre’s throat as she tumbles through the doorway, keys falling to the floor with a clatter followed by pointless mutual ‘ _shushing_.’  She’s fumbling with the strap of her left shoe while Rhys nibbles her earlobe, whispering teasingly into her ear, “Quiet _Feyre_ _darling_.  Can’t wake dear Nesta and Elain.”

Landing a strategic pinch to his toned side, Feyre bites his chin and tugs him forward, losing her second heel in the process.  “It’s not _my_ fault someone can’t keep his hands to himself until we’re out of the communal area.”

His hands skitter over her bare back, seeking the cap sleeves that only _just_ keep the devastating dress slung over her lithe form.  “It’s your fault when you’re wearing _this_.”

The sapphire fabric pools at the swell of Feyre’s hips, newly exposed skin prickling in the cool air of her apartment as Rhysand’s hands draw her impossibly closer.  “I didn’t hear any complaints.”

They stumble haphazardly until Rhys’ shirt is completely undone and Feyre is pressed against the door to her bedroom, one leg wrapped deliciously around his slim hips.  “Likely because,” he pauses to nip at her collarbone, “they were too busy drooling over you.”

Grinding against him, Feyre draws a growl from his throat and an answering groan from her own until he lifts her with one arm while the other reaches to open the door as they enter her darkened room.

Her dress and his belt and shirt fall to the floor, utterly forgotten in their stumbling steps toward the surprisingly _made_ bed.

Seamlessly, his shoes and socks are slipped from his feet, the door closing behind them with a careless, if loud, shove when Feyre’s foot catches on a discarded painting smock and sends them both sprawling.

Somehow in the seconds between her fumble and reaching the ground Rhysand manages to twist and take the brunt of the fall on himself, tailbone smarting enough to make him wince, if only just.

Feyre makes to pull away, hands running to check for injuries but his lips chase hers, nudging her jawline when she doesn’t relent.  Between kisses down the column of her neck, Rhysand rasps, “Just - _leave_ \- it - _darling_.”

She huffs against his mouth but complies, fingers loosening his button and dragging his zipper down, wrestling with the loosened trousers until Rhys snickers and lifts his hips, simultaneously assisting in her quest to disrobe him _and_ find more glorious friction.

Their seeking hands eventually leave them both bare and panting with Feyre perched _just_ above where they both want her to be and Rhys loses patience, surging forward as Feyre slides down and their shared sighs fill the quiet air.

Despite the awkward position, neither manages to question things until Rhys groans as her nails drag down his chest. “I hate to break up the party, but I’m about to get rug burns in some _unfortunate_ areas.”

Feyre pulls back, lips swollen as his, pupils blown wide as a smirk slides across her face.  “Too rough for the big man?”

He grins dangerously and thrusts his hips upward once _twice_ and draws a gasp from her lips.  “Just know you don’t appreciate _delayed gratification_ ,” a third thrust.

Awkward maneuvering coupled with traded kisses and playful laughter eventually ends in their damp bodies collapsing to the plush bed.  Rhysand is pillowed between her legs, drawing out the torture as he slowly slides back where she wants him.  Groans and sighs fill the room as the bed just creaks beneath them, but Feyre can’t bring herself to worry about the noise when Rhys’ hands are stroking up her sweat sheened back, clutching her to his chest before flipping their positions, leaving her looming above him.  “Can’t be a controlling bear the whole time, eh?”

The question comes out as a growl that rumbles through her core and Feyre simply nods, pressing his shoulders to the mattress forcefully as she twists and drags her hips, finally bringing them both to the finish as Rhysand’s thrust upward in three final desperate strokes.

She collapses onto his chest, dampness cooling in the still darkened room, and breathes a sigh across his broad chest.  “There’ll be hell to pay with Nesta in the morning.  She’s a light sleeper.”

“That’s one thing to call it.”

Feyre doesn’t manage anything beyond a lazy swat to his bicep in answer, and silence descends once more.  They’ve both nearly drifted off to sleep - or at least Feyre has - when Rhysand murmurs into her hairline, “You know.  There is a solution to your roommate problem.”

An errant kiss to his shoulder invites him to continue the thought.  “I’m quite lonely in my little town home.”

She tenses under his stroking fingers but doesn’t pull away, which Rhysand takes to mean his pending suggestion may not be all that undesired.  “Perhaps _you_ could move in?”

Humming against his throat, Feyre presses open mouthed kisses up his neck, jaw, lingering at the corner of his mouth when she whispers, “That doesn’t fix your empty bedroom problems though.”

In between presses Rhysand answers just as quietly, “One - should be - a - _studio_ ,” a longer comes pause at this as Feyre spears her fingers through his mussed locks and sweeps her tongue through his mouth desperately.

Uncharacteristically, he slows the kiss and breaks a breath away, “And the other can be our _sex dungeon_.”

They descend into giggles at his suggestion and soon find themselves tangled together beneath the now unmade bed when Feyre brings the idea up again, “I can’t believe you ruined your proposal with a _lewd_ sex joke.”

“We both know dirty talk is a mutually enjoyed pastime in this relationship, darling.”

Forgoing words, Rhysand decides to win the argument with a more _enjoyable_ use of his mouth that leaves Feyre speechless even when a half dressed Nesta storms the room with a scowl, lighting into the couple about ‘ _interrupted sleep’_ and ‘ _inconsiderate sisters_ _who only care about their too pretty boyfriends_.’

Rhysand has just emerged from beneath the covers, ready to light into the eldest Archeron when an unexpected and very _male_ figure appears over Nesta’s shoulder, striding toward the bathroom and only briefly fully exposing his _gifts_ to viewers.  Still oblivious, Nesta finally turns at Feyre’s pointed look, an uncharacteristic blush rising on her cheeks as she falls silent, caught between her righteous indignation and the desire to flee before teasing sets in.

Apparently choosing to save the jokes for a time when Nesta _and_ Cassian are present, Rhysand drags himself up next to Feyre and drops back against the pillows.  “How about we let this issue drop for now and enjoy our separately earned afterglows - save ribbing for a more _clothed_ situation.”

Before she can respond, Cassian emerges from the bathroom, tugging Nesta’s hand playfully as he passes.  “Coming again dear?”

And in case any of them missed his clumsy innuendo he wriggles his brows for emphasis, offering a salute to Feyre and Rhysand - all the while completely unashamed of his bare form.

He gives a shake of his bum - begrudgingly enjoyed by one third of his audience - before Nesta’s door clicks shut behind him.  After a pause, Feyre regains her tongue.  “I’m moving out.  Tomorrow.”


	2. Implicit

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nessian & Prompt 7: routine kisses where the other person presents their cheek/forehead for the hello/goodbye kiss without even looking up from what they’re doing - Canon Universe Rated T

He’s not sure how he started this, and he doesn’t want it to stop.  That doesn’t mean he’s not petrified of the day when she finally catches on and has his balls for it.

All Cassian _knows_ is whenever he tilts his face invitingly, Nesta brushes a kiss across his bristly cheek and he blushes like a naive child.  In fact, it was so absentminded in its origins that Cassian didn’t even notice until a few weeks earlier when he strode toward the balcony House of Wind, intent on departing for the Illyrian Steppes, and offered his face to her with a cheeky grin.  At best, he expected a few minutes of verbal sparring before his solitary flight, but instead Nesta rose on her toes and kissed him gently, turning away so swiftly she missed his gaping mouth and wide eyes.  

Sadly, Rhys did _not_ , and has been milking it for the last month at every turn, causing Cassian to entertain frequent daydreams of tackling him to the muddy streets and pummeling his smug smirking face.

Still, the teasing was worth Nesta’s affection, however mindlessly it was afforded.

Regardless, he has no one but himself to blame for his current predicament, lips still frozen against Nesta’s pale forehead, broad arm wrapped around her slim middle, their chests brushing deliciously.  Like everything else that led up to this point, Cassian hadn’t consciously decided to step up their silent affection ,and didn’t even _realize_ it was happening until the smell of rosewater and something _fiery_ tickled his senses, his dark eyes nearly rolling back in his head.

She drags in a short breath and he feels it against the bared skin of his breastbone, but still, Nesta remains in the cage of his arms, still as a statue - not reciprocating, but not rebuffing either.

His breath eases out slowly across the top of her head, flyaways dancing in the afternoon light, when Nesta finally clears her throat.  “What.  Was that?”

Mentally cursing himself for this being the _one_ time his endless witty rejoinders fail him, Cassian makes to pull his arm away and he almost thinks he’s imagined her slight form swaying into his chest, until her nose brushes his collarbone.

Throwing caution to the wind - he’s never been one for hesitation or measured steps - Cassian lets his broad hand trip up her back until he’s cupping the back of her head, tilting her face to his.  “It seemed obvious to me.  Perhaps you need a tutor?”

Their noses are brushing now and Cassian is half expecting a fist to the jaw when Nesta surges forward and her lips claim his, seeking, confident, filled with longing that draws a sigh from his mouth to hers.

Some part of his consciousness prickles even as he throws himself into the kiss, somehow ending up with his wings pinned to the wall.  Nesta’s slim fingers spear through his lush locks until she finally pulls away and he chases her almost pathetically, chest heaving as she nips at his lips, their noses brushing when she speaks.  “If you tell anyone, I’ll kill you in your sleep.”

With a wink over her shoulder, Nesta disappears down the corridor, leaving Cassian gaping in her wake.


	3. Grateful

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Feysand & Prompt 6: lazy morning kisses before they’ve even opened their eyes, still mumbling half-incoherently, not wanting to wake up - Modern AU Rated M

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shorty drabble which continues the same universe as the first one shot in this collection, but both are just disgusting fluff & smut so there's not a real plot to follow (Feyre & Rhys just moved in together, and that's all you need to know lol)

Rhysand wakes up because there’s a knee digging into his kidney.  Still, he can’t bring himself to be playfully annoyed - even when his back is twisted up in knots from the move - because _Feyre_.  Her slim artist’s fingers are warm against his middle and her breath tickles across his shoulders and Rhys has a hard time remembering ever being this content.

After a moment, eyes still groggy with sleep, Rhysand rolls in her arms and slides down until their faces are level, noses brushing gently.  A small wrinkle appears between her brows and he kisses it away, lips dragging across her features lovingly - temple - cheekbone - jawline - and just as he’s reaching her chin, the furrow reappears.  “You’re quite affectionate this morning.”

Huffing, he continues his delicate ministrations, tripping his lips over the pale column of her neck, before he answers somewhere near her collarbone.  “Can’t a man appreciate his new housemate without his motives being questioned?”

Feyre drags her nails over Rhysand’s scalp and tugs his mouth back to hers, as they trade slow, lazy kisses.  “I think I can guess your _motives_ pretty easily.”

And in case he missed her insinuation, Feyre thrusts her hips teasingly against his, catching the resulting moan with her mouth.  Her hands are caressing his bare back and lower while Rhysand works her to a similar state of undress, and the sun’s not even up yet.

She’s still settled into that early morning haze that comes with just waking up so Feyre complies easily when Rhysand nudges her onto her back and slips between her thighs, fingers purposeful and seeking.  “I’m _ready_ prick.”

They trade messy kisses, made messier by Rhysand’s laughter.  “Well alright, Feyre darling.”

“Just because you can’t _see_ that a woman has a morning erec-“

Her sentence is cut off when Rhysand thrusts his hips forward and twin sighs fill the ever brightening room, sunlight just beginning to eek through the curtains.

They’re slow and steady - _painfully_ so and Feyre would smack the knowing smirk from his face but she’s afraid that would make things _stop_.  So she settles for biting his earlobe, tugging it between her teeth as her nails dig into his sweat sheened back, muscles tensing and releasing beneath her fingers as they move together.

It doesn’t take long for either of them, speeding up at the end to a symphony of creaking bed springs and mingled exclamations, and Rhys collapses against her chest.  “I _love_ being roommates.”


	4. Exception

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Feysand & Prompts 1, 3, and 4
> 
> Prompt 1: breaking the kiss to say something, staying so close that you’re murmuring into each other’s mouths
> 
> Prompt 3: kissing so desperately that their whole body curves into the other person’s
> 
> Prompt 4: throwing their arms around the other person, holding them close while they kiss
> 
> Modern AU - Rated T

Before Feyre, he tended to sit back and scoff at loved up couples with excessive PDA in public spaces.  The whole routine - ecstatic reunion in an airport or train station, smelling each other, passionate kisses, whispers in ears, and usually the woman’s legs ended up wrapped desperately around the man’s hips.

And it made him a little nauseated.  Or it used to.  Right now, he’s too busy pulling Feyre closer, the heels of her boots digging into his lower back, a pain he welcomes because it reminds him she’s _there_.

Their arms are practically doubled over each other, clutching the other close as their breathing begins to sync, and Rhysand realizes somehow he’s managed to go this long into their reunion without kissing her and decides to remedy that immediately.

The first press is chaste, but then Feyre’s fingers press up his spine, knit into his hair, drawing him ever closer, and he can’t manage to remember _why_ they can’t just consummate their much anticipated reunion right this second.  Until an announcement for a gate change sounds over the PA system and he realizes they have a small group of admirers gawking at them, including one elderly woman who’s grinning and snapping photos.

Before they can be further immortalized in the Cloud of a stranger or security decides they’re causing too much of a ruckus, Rhysand loosens his grip and Feyre slides down his body in that way that has him reconsidering his previous decision to delay proceedings.

But he takes a steadying breath and slings her carry on bag over his shoulder and they pick up the rest of things at baggage claim.  They lug her cases back to the parking garage with more difficulty than he will ever admit to Cassian or Azriel, but Feyre pats his brow and assures him that three months worth of clothes and souvenirs for their little friend family adds up.

Once everything is tucked away into the pristine trunk of his car, Rhysand turns toward the driver’s side and feels himself tugged backward immediately.  Luckily, he’s well aware of who’s doing the tugging so Feyre doesn’t get an expertly landed punch to the gut and instead he finds himself back in her determined embrace, her arms wrapping around his neck and pulling his head toward hers.

By the time their lips meet Feyre’s backed against the boot of his car and his hands are slipping underneath her buttery leather jacket, the sway of her back arching as they mold into each other and he almost can’t recall what it’s like to _not_ have her here, to not have _this_.

Still, there’s a niggling part of his brain that reminds him they’re in a public - if abandoned - parking garage.  But aside from worst case scenarios that involve unsuspecting couples caught off guard in desolate parking garages, he’s afraid that if he does what his less logical side is telling him - which involves removing only the necessary clothes to bring them both satisfaction in the back seat of his car, sticky leather seats and public indecency be damned - he’s just missed _her_.  Talking, laughing, just _being_ with each other.  And he wants her to know it’s not just her body he needs to slowly and deliberately relearn with _extra_ care.

So he pulls away just barely and Feyre’s responding moan almost makes him toss his rapidly forming speech out the window.  Until he sees her eyes, those stormy blue-grey eyes he’s dreamt about enough times in the last months that he never really managed to forget them, and he renews his resolve.  

Although he can’t bring himself to move more than a breath away, their lips still brushing as he murmurs, “I missed you.  _All_ of you.”

He sees her eyes dance playfully at first, like she’s combing through the entendres and flirtations she could use in response, and then settle down into understanding.  She’s sobered but somehow still gloriously happy when she answers, a glint in her eyes, “I missed you too.  _All of you_.”


	5. Challenge

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Feysand & Prompts 18 & 19
> 
> Prompt 18: kisses where one person is sitting in the other’s lap 
> 
> Prompt 19: kisses meant to distract the other person from whatever they were intently doing
> 
> Modern AU - Rated M

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This could arguably be in that Feyre & Rhysand just moved in together universe. It is in my head but it doesn’t have to be. SMUT THE PROMPT SAID THIRSTY FOR SMUT IM SORRY I HOPE ITS OK.

Over the years, Feyre has walked in on Cassian and Rhysand doing some strange things that had ended with Rhysand half-knitted into a giant sock, both mostly nude and wrestling in the muddy back yard, and Rhysand standing over a prone and shirtless Cassian who screamed for more wax.

So finding them sitting around the coffee table surrounded by four empty Jenga boxes and crushed up energy drink cans doesn’t rate _too_ high on the strangeness scale.  Still, she can’t help but freeze for a moment in the doorway, keys dangling from her fingers as Cassian slides a piece from somewhere in the middle and displays unusual amounts of caution as he places it on the top of the teetering tower.

Neither has noticed her presence so she sets her slightly waterlogged possessions out to dry and slips her heels off, sighing as her toes uncramp, and hangs her trench on its customary hook, before padding into the living room.

Rhysand doesn’t notice her yet and she’d be concerned if not for his single-minded focus on his own turn currently under way.  So with a nod toward Cassian as he sighs and slouches back against the couch, Feyre perches on the arm of Rhysand’s chair and nuzzles his hairline.  “I see you’ve had a productive afternoon.”

He huffs a laugh, but really, Feyre knows how he and the boys work all the time, and getting odd days off in the middle of the work week is one of the benefits of all that effort.  They’d closed a big deal overseas late Tuesday which meant Rhys was still dead to the world when she kissed his brow on the way to the gallery that morning and was now wearing sweats - designer but still sweats - and playing a board game well into the evening hours.

She watches for a few moments as he prods various pieces, testing for looseness while Cassian’s expression turns from confident to almost intolerably smug and Feyre knows if this goes much longer she will have another mud-wrestling scenario on her hands.  And while the sight was certainly titillating, the resulting man-shaped mud stain on the rug was less so.

All of this flits through her brain fast enough that she’s formed a plan long before Rhys is even close to making a move, which is what she’s counting on.

As Cassian’s standing and strutting toward the kitchen for a snack, Feyre presses a chaste but promising kiss to Rhysand’s temple, nuzzling the spot for good measure before she trails her lips down the side of his face, biting at his ear before kissing the sting away.  “I had a rough day.”

He gets points for how long he manages to tear his eyes away from the tower, because at this point in their relationship, Feyre knows each of them has certain failings or just _quirks_.  And this particular one - Rhysand’s ability to set his mind to a task with laser focus until that’s all he can even _think_ about - can actually be beneficial in certain, less clothed settings.  So honestly she’s surprised when his lavender eyes switches to her face, when her plan accounted for a much longer lead in time to get to this point.

A smile - one of those smiles she loves him for - slides across his face as he takes in her soggy hair and tired shoulders and he reaches one hand up to cup her jaw.  “Home already Feyre, darling?”

Feyre smirks and gazes out the window at the fully risen moon, “I don’t think you realize how late it is, Rhys.  You’ve probably been at this for close to six hours if my estimates are right.”

His answering kiss is an avoidance but also an indication that if she plays her cards right - which she always does - this will end in a much more satisfying way for both of them than any Jenga game could.

Still, there’s still work to be done, as is made clear when Rhysand almost immediately turns back toward the blocks and begins prodding them again with gentle fingers.  Oh how she loves those gentle fingers, stroking down her arms, her chest, and _further_.

It’s those daydreams that strengthen her resolve and with cat-like nimbleness, Feyre’s perched on the chair behind him, legs straddling his back as her fingers caress his shoulders with soft purpose.  She continues her ministrations, occasionally kneading away knots likely borne of stress from work and whatever hellscape this game has turned into over the past half-day, until a shiver runs up his spine and she knows it’s time for Stage 3.

Reaching around his front, Feyre runs her hands up from his waist, finds the zip on his sweat shirt and tugs it down slowly, letting her fingers brush _just_ so against the chest she’s happy to find bare of a t-shirt.  His movements stutter but he doesn’t answer, not beyond a low growl she feels against her core as it rumbles through his body.

She’s made of stronger stuff and ignores the almost silent warning and realizes Cassian’s clanging about in the kitchen gives her just enough time for success.  Hopefully.

Once the jacket is completely open, Feyre uses barely there touches to ratchet up his heart rate, his pulse thrumming at his neck where she brushes her lips, her breaths.  Rhysand surrenders one hand to hold hers still and she knows it’s almost there, she’s almost won.  

Instead of fighting the control, she nibbles at his ear again, kneeling behind him so she can reach his jaw and press hot, open mouthed kisses along the sharp jut and back again, giving his neck the same treatment.  

Pausing, she sucks at his pulse point and his hand clenches around hers, telling her she’s nearly there.  It’s when her teeth come in that she’s delivered the death blow and he’s fully surrendered, sighing a quiet, “ _Feyre_.”

Cassian chooses this moment to emerge from his culinary adventures in the kitchen, mozzerella sticks piled in a Jenga-like fashion that has Feyre marveling anyone is intimidated by the two dorks, then finds herself silently grateful that she can count herself as one of the lucky few who sees them this way.

Rhysand however, is not as endeared and reaches around to thread his fingers through her hair, nails scratching at her scalp for a moment before glancing up at Cassian.  “Get out.”

He’s mid way through a mozerella stick when this happens and his mouth falls open rather comically for a split second before he puts two and two together, Feyre’s position, Rhysand’s likely darkened eyes and set jaw, before he grunts, “Alright.  But the snacks come with me.  And if you knock that over in the throes of passion I still win.”

Then Cassian’s striding out of the apartment toward his own across the hall, plate in hand and demands for a continuation of their Jenga match the following afternoon because ‘ _It’s about honor, Rhys.’  
_

The door hasn’t even slammed shut before Rhysand manages to somehow maneuver Feyre into his lap and she’s grinding down against him, and she swears he _purrs_.

Their lips clash in desperation and Feyre didn’t even _know_ how ready she was until she felt Rhysand’s broad hands against her still clammy skin, warming her back as they efficiently divest her of her bra and sweater.

Kisses turn sloppy and open mouthed, sighs and supplications traded in secret whispers when Feyre shoves Rhysand’s jacket off his shoulders.  “Much as I’d love to christen this chair with you, I’m way too preoccupied with that damn tower to fully enjoy it.”

Rhysand grins against her lips, tugging the bottom one with his teeth.  “And you say _I’m_ the competitive one.”

“If he wins Nesta will get that _look_.  You know the - “ she sighs as his mouth works over her neck, “ _one_.”

He snorts, acknowledging the truth of her prediction and bands his arms tightly around her waist, striding toward the bedroom until he trips over one of Cassian’s apparently abandoned shoes and nearly face plants into the wall.  His trajectory is only halted by one arm shooting out to brace against the wall, Feyre still somehow cradled in his other, her legs like a vice around his hips as they descend into laughter.

As they calm, Rhysand’s face buried the crook of her neck, Feyre squeezes and thrusts her hips meaningfully.  “You know.  This hasn’t been christened yet either.”

“You’re a damn _nuisance_ ,” Rhysand murmurs into her ear as she quickly shucks his pants and boxers in a miraculously graceful manner, leaving them to pool around his ankles.

Her skirt is loose enough that they work together and it’s simply bunched around her middle and her panties pushed to the side so Rhys can _finally_ reach where they both want.  The first press, deliciously slick and firm, has Feyre’s nails leaving crescent moons in his sculpted back and Rhysand biting down on her shoulder.  

Until she reminds him they’re alone.  “No one to worry about except the neighbors, _Rhys_.”  Her voice breaks at the end as Rhysand’s thrusts increase in speed and Feyre is looking for anything to ground her, nearly sending picture frames to the ground with her seeking hands.

Rhysand chuckles against her chest and continues his attentions which she’s more than grateful for.  The hand splayed near her head clenches into a fist as his forearm falls against the wall, their bodies pressing closer and movements becoming more erratic.

One of Feyre’s legs slips down from his hips, catching against his calf, the change in angle drawing another groan from both their lips until twin shouts sound one after the other.

Her hands run over his shoulders, sweat cooling as it pools in the curves of his muscles, holding him closer.  “Better than Jenga?”

His chest is still heaving as her feet find the ground again.  “Better than Jenga.”


	6. Chronicle

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Feysand & Prompt 16: when one person’s face is scrunched up, and the other one kisses their lips/nose/forehead (FLUFFY) - Canon-verse Rated G

Feyre’s tucked up in the library when he finds her, face buried in _The Histories of Prythian_ , more specifically one of multiple volumes.  He’s going to retreat and allow her the few moments of quiet that are so rare in their forever bustling household, when her face turns up and stares at him incredulously.

“Did you know Illyrians used to be _hunted_ for their wings?!”

Rhysand can’t help the intake of breath at the thought, his own wings rustling nervously at his back.  “Yes.  Not a particularly happy thought.”

Heat spreads across the bridge of her nose and over her cheeks as her brow furrows tightly.  “This wasn’t long before _you_ were born.  Your mother - “

His gaze falters.  “Yes, among other things she was forced to contend with.”

She’s still fuming when he’s made his way across the room, lips finding the wrinkles in her forehead.  As he breathes in her calming scent, Feyre blows out a steadying breath.  “Sorry I’m a little high strung.”

He laughs against her hairline.  “Warranted give the topic,” his hands stroke her swollen middle, “Plus you’re getting indignant for two now.”

As he perches on the arm of her chair, they linger in silence as the late afternoon sun cuts across the rich carpet of the family library, each taking comfort in the presence of the other.  One hand holds his in place across her belly while the other rises to knit into his inky locks.  “I suppose it’s worse since he’ll be a quarter Illyrian.”

Nuzzling her hairline, Rhysand chuckles lightly, “He, eh?”

“A mother knows these things.”

They’re quiet again for a time until Feyre jolts, tossing the book clear across the room, but she’s laughing and tugging him down in front of her.  “He’s _kicking_!”

Rhysand feels a broad grin splitting his face as she presses his hands to her stomach, tiny feet pushing through the rich fabrics draped over Feyre’s form.  “I can’t wait to teach them to fly.”

Feyre smirks, darkness growing at her back, “Who says you get to teach him?”


	7. Genuine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nessian & Prompts 5, 8, and 9
> 
> 5\. hands on the other person’s back, fingertips pressing under their top, drawing gentle circles against that small strip of bare skin that make them break the kiss with a gasp
> 
> 8\. being unable to open their eyes for a few moments afterward 
> 
> 9\. one small kiss, pulling away for an instant, then devouring each other 
> 
> Modern AU - Rated M

He’d really intended the kiss to be a chaste one, the stereotypical end-of-first-date peck.  And when he pulled away Cassian had half expected a slap given their history, so when Nesta immediately tugs him back by his neck and practically _devours_ him he’s a bit caught off guard.

Still, he feels guilt settle in his stomach when she releases him and he sees her eyes are still shut, grip still there but loose, uncharacteristically hesitant.  "Did- was that a mistake?”

Her eyes shoot open when laughter rumbles through his chest, an indignant reproof on her lips that vanishes when his hands grasp her waist and pull her forward, his mouth firm against hers.

Nesta’s lips part with a gasp as his fingers rise beneath her blouse, gently teasing the soft skin there as Cassian deepens the kiss.  “ _Nesta_.”

Given this scenario, Cassian likely would’ve guessed the next few moments would involve desperate removal of clothes and clumsy stumbles through the apartment, but his expectations are upended as Nesta pulls away and strides toward her bedroom, leaving a trail of clothes in her wake.

Cassian manages a few steps in her direction before his brain short circuits somewhere near the bathroom and his swollen mouth gapes open.  Somehow, it’s a nearly naked Nesta standing before him, hands on hips, that jars him back to reality and he’s back in gear.

When his hands skim up her sides and he makes to unsnap her bra, Nesta slaps him away and he starts back tracking, trying to guess when he misjudged her intentions.  Until she speaks to clarify, “This isn’t going to be one of those, ‘she’s naked and he’s just unleashed the necessaries,” she mostly ignores his snort as her hands fall to the straining zip of his jeans, “If I’m doing this with you I want _all_ the spoils.”

He’s considering whether being called ‘spoils is a compliment as he tugs his shirt off and Nesta removes his pants and boxers in one go, then turns toward what’s presumably her bedroom.  “We’ll save the adventurous locations for later.”

“Later?” Cassian asks hoarsely as he follows.

Nesta turns to him again, the lace of her bra brushing deliciously against his bare chest.  “Doubting whether your performance will have me asking for seconds?”

It’s the challenge in her eyes that truly brings him out of the haze of mostly naked Nesta and gets his brain in gear.  In one sweep she’s in his arms, legs around his waist, glorious friction below the belt.  “Doubting whether you’ll be able to keep up, more like.”

They’re dropped back onto the bed at this point and Nesta’s eyes are glinting dangerously when she flips their positions.  “We’ll see who’s keeping up with whom, _Cassian_.”

Then she’s fully bare too and they’re a hurricane of grasping hands and desperate lips until she’s fully seated atop him and if his mind could manage a coherent thought Cassian might be embarrassed by the whimper that leaves his lips.  Then again, if it makes her face light like it is right now, makes that deep-throated laughter fill the room - there’s probably little he _wouldn’t_ do.

Time passes as they battle for control, more like a dance than an actual clash of wills, but either way he’s on the precipice _entirely_ too soon and can’t bear to not bring her with him.  Not that she seems likely to let that happen either.

Cassian bats her fingers away and his own take their place and soon he’s hovering over her, Nesta’s back arching against the rumpled sheets and his mouth going dry at her beatific expression.  She’s just crashed over when he follows with a low growl, just enough thought left in his brain to collapse _next_ to her.

He almost thinks he’s in some catatonic dream state when fingers card through his hair gently, followed by the soft press of lips against his temple.  Still, he’s too content to question it and simply pulls her closer as they drift off.  Confirmation comes a few hours later when Nesta slips beneath the sheets pooled at his waist and decides to show him just how _serious_ she is.


	8. Wager

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Feysand & prompts 10 and 17
> 
> 10\. staring at the other’s lips, trying not to kiss them, before giving in
> 
> 17\. height difference kisses where one person has to bend down and the other is on their tippy toes
> 
> Modern AU - Rated T

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I started this fic and then forgot where the story was going but I remembered! I think it’s a fun one so I hope you all enjoy it :)

It all starts when Feyre takes the cooking class because she ‘wants to eat like an adult’ or something to that effect.  They’d managed to get sidetracked halfway through her rant about not being poor students (not that he ever qualified as the former) with the two out of the three food products left in their refrigerator - chocolate syrup and whipped cream make for fun, mini pickles not so much - so forgive him if the conversation’s content slipped his mind.  He’s certain _Feyre_ forgave him…

But she ended up taking the two month class, doing well, and instituting a bi-weekly ‘dinner party night’ for their friends to all come over and sample her newest culinary endeavor.  And that’s when the jokes start. 

No one in their little ‘inner circle’ of friends had seen Rhysand in a long-term relationship (probably because he hadn’t had one) before Feyre so these evening soirées gave them the opportunity to see live-in boyfriend Rhysand at his peak.  Which apparently involves a lot more casual PDA than anyone expected - mostly quick pecks to the forehead and lips, only occasionally deepening enough that everyone starts clearing their throats dramatically.

It’s one of the former though, that really sets things going.  Rhysand is about to take a seat at the table as Feyre sweeps in with a full to the brim wooden salad bowl that brings a wave of citrusy freshness with it, when she tilts her head and rises on her toes like nothing and Rhysand barely takes a breath before he’s leaning down and pressing his lips to hers.

The moment is so short it’s essentially over by the time Cassian starts mock gagging from across the table.  Feyre turns from her trip back into the kitchen, hands on her hips.  “If you don’t like it, don’t _eat it_.”

Cassian raises his hands placatingly as Feyre unconsciously takes a threatening step toward him and ruffles his hair back.  “Not the food - I - Do you both realize how many times you’ve done those little kisses,” he gestures between them, “since we all sat down.”

Rhysand leans against the doorway casually, his muscled arms flexing as he crosses them.  “Would you prefer Feyre to ravish me right here on the table?”

Mor snickers from the other end of the table and Feyre smacks Rhys’ bum on her way back into the kitchen, but Cassian isn’t cowed.  “I’m just saying I think the pair of you are incapable of _not_ having romantic lip contact for a full evening.”

Feyre’s ‘Ha!’ sounds from the kitchen but Rhysand is all business.  “Is that a challenge?”

“So what if it is?”

And here is where Nesta’s rolling her eyes, Mor is quietly cheering, and Azriel and Lucien are already making a side bet, while Elain makes an excuse to help Feyre in the kitchen.

By the time everyone is settled around the table, the bet is settled for the next dinner.  Once Feyre is caught up on everything, she takes the whole issue as much less of an affront to their honor as a couple than Rhys did, shrugging easily.  “I don’t foresee having a problem.”

Rhysand pauses mid sip and turns toward Feyre, his eyes sparking mischievously, “Do I detect a hint of superiority, Feyre darling?”

“You might.”

Mor leans toward Lucien and whispers conspiratorially, “One of these day’s they’re just going to do it on the table.”

Her cousin glares and then folds his hands casually on the table.  “Since it’s an evening for challenges - “

Which is how they ended up here, in the pantry, two weeks later, inches apart but not _quite_ touching because Feyre bet Rhys that he couldn’t make it two weeks without their _special time_ and she could.  Feyre’s eyes dart down to his lips but her jaw clenches defiantly.  “I am _not_ giving in no matter how much you _purr_ at me.”

Rhysand backs her into the shelves, his arms coming up to box her in as he whispers in her ear, “Well _I’m_ not giving in no matter how many times you parade around in your lacy underthings.”

Feyre hums a moment and pushes past him, turning back over her shoulder at the last moment, “Well then I guess you won’t care that I’m _not wearing any_.”

Before he’s able to react, Feyre is slipping from the closet and greeting their guests for dinner, which he manages to endure even when her bare foot scratches at his ankle just _there_.  Once they’ve reached dessert, not a word of conversation reaches his ears, his mouth is watering for something _other_ than the mousse, and he can’t seem to drag his eyes away from the smudge of chocolate on her lower lip as she licks her spoon clean, apparently unaware of the effect she’s having on his sanity.  Or at least he _thinks_ she’s unaware until he pushes away from the table rather violently and her expression is a little _too_ shocked to be genuine.  Confusion thrums through the group but Rhys is honestly beyond caring, so he tosses his billfold toward Cassian and rumbles, “Dinner’s over,” without tearing his gaze away from a triumphant Feyre.

Snickers and jeers pepper through the group’s conversation as they evacuate the apartment with remarkable speed until the door slams shut behind them and Cassian pokes his head back in, “Don’t do anything I wouldn’t, kids!”

Rhys shoves the door closed, nearly catching Cassian’s nose in the crossfire, and rounds on a coy looking Feyre.  “You are a _minx_.”

“And _you’re_ going to lose this bet.”

His grin is positively feline as he advances, “How about we _both_ win?”


	9. Tremors

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Feysand & Prompt 16: when one person’s face is scrunched up, and the other one kisses their lips/nose/forehead - Canonverse (post ACOWAR) rated T

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> IMPORTANT: This alludes to a bit of stuff that happened in ACOWAR so don't read it if you are avoiding any spoilers. It's super vague but it's there and I don't want to spoil stuff so read at your own risk

A/N: shorty but I like it and I hope you do too!  Almost went smutty at the end but you can imagine where you’d like things to go...

It’s still just before dawn when Feyre wakes to Rhys’ quiet murmurs.  At first, she assumes he’s up early, already working, which isn’t too unusual for the High Lord of the Night Court.  Much as she tries to convince him sleep is necessary, even for him.

But when she turns toward his side of the bed, her fingers splay across the still warm sheets and meet his solid form.  Blinking the sleep from her eyes, Feyre slides closer until she’s half splayed across his sweat sheened chest.  But instead of the restful expression she expects, Rhysand’s face is screwed up in distress, his lips moving wordlessly, muscles tensed.

After a moment of consideration, she slips further up his body until her face hovers over his and places a chaste kiss to the wrinkle between his brows, the tip of his nose, his left and then right cheek, before finally coming to his parted lips.  She just nips at first, once, twice, three times, and Rhysand is blinking awake, eyes softening from their momentary panic before he renews and deepens the kiss.

She’s perched across his hips when they finally pull away, her knees falling to either side comfortably as she brushes her nose against his.  “Would you like to talk about it?”

His breath huffs out against her jawline as he presses his lips along the curve of her chin.  “Likely what you’d expect after all this time - what you’ve had yourself.”

Feyre pulls away from his seeking lips, hands framing his face, forcing his gaze to lock with hers.  “That doesn’t mean - you can still talk about it.”

Rhysand’s fingers card through her hair gently, just tickling her delicate ears.  “I hardly remember the specifics now.  The comfort is _you_.  Not the words.”

Her eyes narrow as she debates the truthfulness of his statement, and Rhysand lets her through the cracks in his shields, lets her see.  Its foggy, faint feelings she’s only experienced one horrible time.  “Losing me?”

His eyes shutter a bit, hands sliding up and down her bare sides.  “To have felt it once - it’s hard to forget.”

Their eyes lock for a moment, until Feyre dips her head close, the press of her lips long and languid as she whispers words of comfort between kisses until every shared breath feels like remembering, _home_.


	10. Delay

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Feysand & Prompt 11: when one stops the kiss to whisper “I’m sorry, are you sure you-” and they answer by kissing them more - Modern AU Rated T (heavy)

A/N: I started this and thought I finished and published it, and then I went in my drafts and it was not.  Good story right?  Hopefully the actual drabble is more entertaining.  Kinda NSFW :)

(on Ao3 soon!)

* * *

 

**Delay**

It’s her fault really, for not realizing that some men actually respect boundaries, and letting it go this long without telling him she would like them to mutually ravish each other.  He knew well enough when they started dating that her previous relationship ended because of its less than healthy nature and was utterly cautious about letting her take the lead - responding enthusiastically, but always doing just that.  _Responding_.  So when she has a smudge of ice cream on her lip he finally pulls the ultimate ‘move’ - i.e. kissing it off - she’s _more_ than ready.

And yet, he apparently doesn’t read _those_ signals and pulls away, looking uncharacteristically bashful, lavender eyes scrunched shut as he rushes an apology, “I’m sorry, are you - “

Feyre doesn’t let Rhysand finish whatever idiotic question he was about to ask and just tugs his face back to hers, lips aggressive enough that she hopes he’ll catch her drift.

Which he does, because he gets so swept up he nearly squishes his ice cream cone in her hair, but luckily he realizes as his lips run over her jawline.  “Perhaps, we should _not_ consummate our relationship in public?”

Feyre bites his earlobe and murmurs back, “Maybe not.  _Yet_.”

So Rhysand slips into the driver’s seat and Feyre grasps his hand.  At least at first until he swerves into the shoulder one too many times and puts a temporary ban on any touching.  Because he’d like to get home in one piece.

They manage to make it back to Rhysand’s town house - no roomates - quickly enough and Feyre’s making unlocking the door pretty difficult with the _things_ she’s doing to him, her hands working on the buttons running over his chest.  But he gets it on the third try and turns to Feyre, “If you don’t behave yourself I’ll throw you over my shoulder and  - “

“Aren’t punishments supposed to be _un_ -wanted?” Feyre murmurs as she pulls him into the apartment by his lapels and Rhysand lets out a growl, grasping her waist so she’s forced to link her legs behind his back, sandals falling to the floor.

He stumbles toward the staircase when Feyre’s hands finally make it to his belt and quickly work it free from the loops.  “I’ve been _waiting_ and you were so _patient_.”

Rhysand huffs against her neck as he loosens another button on the front of her dress.  “You’re welcome.”

Feyre’s hands pause and she tilts his face so their eyes meet.  “I’m unbelievably grateful for your patience, which I needed.  But _my_ patience has run out and you’ve been torturing me with your - “

“Fantastic body?”

“ _Hands_.”

He smirks and lets said hands run up her thighs and beneath the mostly undone dress.  “I am a rather sensuous being.”

She slips his pants off his hips and links her legs tight around his waist, pulling till their centers press together _deliciously_.  “Talk is - _cheap_.”

Rhysand pauses his kisses at her sternum and grins dangerously.  “Allow me to _show_ then, Feyre darling.”


	11. Holiday

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Feysand & Prompt 15: a gentle “i love you” whispered after a soft kiss, followed immediately by a stronger kiss - Modern AU Rated M

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 2 in one night woo. Let me know what you think :)

As a notoriously light sleeper, Feyre is used to waking when Rhysand leves for his early morning runs, drinking in the sight of her husband dressed in skimpy, body skimming clothes like she’s never seen a man before.  She’s also blessed with the ability to quickly fall _back_ asleep after these wake-up calls, which means she often dreams of sun-kissed trysts where she manages to keep him from leaving their bed.  Which has certainly happened, but until it happens _every time_ it’ll never be enough.

But her sleep this morning feels fairly short, and by the time she wakes, Rhysand is already out of the shower, toweling off in the steamy air, looking so glorious she wonders if maybe she _hasn’t_ woken yet.

Either way, she’s not going to let the opportunity pass, so she props her head on her hand and lets the blanket drape enticingly over her form.  “Well what a view this hotel has.”  

Rhysand jolts a bit in surprise, but recovers his graceful movements quickly enough and turns to face her, unabashedly naked.  “Glad you approve.”

Feyre tosses her hair, exposing her neck in that way she _knows_ he likes, and runs her fingers delicately over her décolletage to ensure his eyes drop to just _there_.  Smirking at her success, Feyre murmurs, “Although, I think a closer inspection is required for a definitive opinion.”

Swaggering in that manner that would be overconfidence for any other man, Rhysand makes his way to the side of the bed, looming so she drops onto her back and gazes up at him as he drawls, “That can be arranged I think.”

Her arms rise and drop over her head, draped over the mountains of pillows.  “Is that so?”

His hum is warm and deep.  “Yes.  My schedule is _in flux_ at the moment.”

“Well pencil me in then, sir,” Feyre breathes, running her finger along his bare thigh, only _just_ avoiding where she’s sure he wants her to go.

Gently, he grasps her hand and lifts it to his lips, pressing a soft kiss to the pads of her fingers, “I love you.” 

Feyre sighs, tugging him till he’s pressing her into the mattress, and slants her mouth over his, deep and heady.  “Love you - _too_.”

Rhysand smirks up from where he’s pulled her nightgown down, lips working across her chest and lingering just _there_.  Her fingers spear through his ebony locks and hold him close, until he pulls away, drawing a moan from her lips, and slides her nightgown off over her head, tossing it off to the side.  “No need for that.”

“Ah, yes.  It _was_ getting in the way,” Feyre agrees with a grin, pulling him away from his downward trajectory.  “Not - we have all week for extras.”

His hand slips low even though he follows her tugs upward, lips melding with hers, murmuring between kisses, “Are - you - _sure_?  It’s no - ah - _chore_.”

Feyre’s grip has reached below his waist now and he’s no longer wondering if she’s certain about what she wants, her grasping hands and swaying hips speak volumes and he complies readily enough.  As he pushes forward, Feyre moans, “Never let it be said I’m an indecisive woman.”

She pulls him deeper and Rhysand lets out a groan against her neck, lifting her leg high.  “ _Never_.”

Feyre’s hands grasp at his rippling muscles as he drives forward, steady and strong, sending jolts through her body with each thrust until she prods his shoulder and twists until she’s looming above him.  Her arms box him in as she controls their movements, swirling and dragging so his cries mix with hers until she drags them both over the edge and collapses across his damp chest.  “I love vacation.”


	12. Unmitigated

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Feysand & Prompts 14, 15, and bonus
> 
> 14: starting with a kiss meant to be gentle, ending up in passion
> 
> 15: a gentle “i love you” whispered after a soft kiss, followed immediately by a stronger kiss
> 
> Bonus: I have you shoved against the wall but now I can’t stop looking at your mouth

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is the last prompt I had from the kissing prompt list so I'll close out this little collection with a little shorty. Still more to come in terms of fics though! Be on the look out for an AU "we used to date and then we run into each other years later" fic

His last conscious thought before nirvana is, “I wonder if I overstirred,” and then Feyre’s tossing the spoon toward the sink, shutting the burner, and has him pressed up against the refrigerator while she kisses the life out of him.

She pulls back, breathing heavy and eyes wild as they dart around his face, and then back down to his lips.  It’s a barely there whisper when she speaks, “Tell me that was okay.”

Rhysand feels a smile spreading across his face as his hands come up to her hips, thumbs brushing just under the hem of her shirt.  “If by ‘okay’ you mean top five moments of my life, then yes.”

A flush spreads across Feyre’s cheeks, and her palm cups his jaw.  “I just - you never _said_ anything so I thought maybe - “

“That’s called intense emotional suppression,” he grins wider, tucks stray hair behind her ear.  “I didn’t want to push you.  Not after - “

The sentence hangs broken in the air, unfinished because they both _know_.  After Tamlin she was - not good.  Probably the worst head-space she’s ever been in, and she had a pretty shitty childhood, so that’s going pretty far.  She got herself out, and Rhysand helped push her through, and somewhere along the way fell even more in love with her than he had been to begin with.

Her fingers toy with the hair at the nape of his neck.  “You’re - you’re my best friend.  I’ve wanted to do that for,” she bites her lip, ” _Entirely_ too long.”

Slowly, so she can pull back if she has second thoughts, Rhysand dips his head and presses his lips to hers, gentle.  They trade soft kisses, noses brushing, hands sliding and grasping, until Feyre leaves a breath of space between them.  “I love you - you’re,” she pauses, “You’re my best friend.  But it’s even _more_.”

He murmurs her name and then slants his mouth over hers, warm and demanding.  Before he knows it, she’s got his shirt rucked up around his middle and her sighs are driving him out of his mind.  “Feyre, darling.  How do you feel about dessert _before_ dinner?”

Hands falling to his fly, she looks at him through her lashes, “Best idea you’ve had.”


End file.
